


Sleeper

by Agent_24



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, M/M, McReaper, healing process, mcreyes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-07-25 14:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7536766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best and worst thing about the Respawn function is the fact that it can be used an infinite amount of times. [Revised]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those who aren't following the [McReyes](http://mcreyes.tumblr.com/) blog on Tumblr or [my personal](https://twitter.com/VioletWreck) on Twitter, please be aware that this story is under heavy revision and is no longer McHanzo. However, Hanzo will still be deeply important to the plot. He'll still be acting as Gabriel's foil, and he'll still be close with McCree. 
> 
> Listen to [Lost Highway](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGtdCUbKZmU) by Koda.

Killing Jesse McCree was inexplicably exhilarating. 

In part, it had something to do with McCree’s skillset. He’d been roguish and outlandish at seventeen, talented with no training, already better than many veterans, and plainly carrying the potential to outshine the best. Overwatch was the kind of organization where someone at the top of their field could hope to get into, the type that painstakingly selected the most skilled soldiers with years of experience; yet McCree had been plucked straight from the desert, just as dusty and rugged as his homeland, and thrust into his work. It was like he’d been born for it. He was barely a grown man, barely anything more than a kid with a gun, but he was _good_ and undeniably brilliant, and he had known it. His skills aged with him like fine wine, and killing him brought on a strange kind of euphoria that the Reaper never felt with others.

There was another reason he enjoyed it, but he tucked the thought into the back of his mind and did his best to keep it there. His head pounded when he held onto it for too long, and it made something in his chest ache.

His gloves shouldn’t have allowed for it, but he swore he could feel McCree’s pulse under his fingertips. His body caved into smoke with each blow McCree landed, metal scratching deep into the leather of his clothes. Reaper tightened his grip, enthralled by his strength, watching in delight as McCree’s lips turned blue, as his soft brown eyes turned glassy.

He stilled as McCree did, taking his time to look over the corpse. Something twisted hard in his belly. He decided to interpret it as pleasure.

* * *

In McCree’s presence, the payload became an unfortunate brand of uninteresting.

It couldn't be helped, really, not when his craving was so deeply rooted in his chest. He dared to think he needed it once (the signs of fear, the way sweat gathered on McCree's brow, the way he struggled, the way his pulse stuttered) and ended up liking the idea too much to let it go. 

Cornering the outlaw was goddamn difficult. McCree was sharp,quick witted, and Reaper couldn’t help the little thrill of delight than ran down his spine whenever McCree pulled a stunt he’d never seen before. What the cowboy lacked in mobility, he made up for in innovation, and the speed at which he picked off Talon agents was nothing short of electrifying.

Separating McCree from his team was, as a result, incredibly satisfying.

He felt a grin spreading over his face as McCree spotted him, adoring the subtle change in his focused expression. That was how he knew he would get what he wanted, that McCree was afraid, that he would slip from that perfect focus to panic and distress. Reaper licked his lips and dissolved into smoke, terribly pleased at the way McCree automatically bared his teeth.

McCree unloaded Peacekeeper into him in a desperate attempt to slow him down. Reaper clicked his tongue, wondering if McCree’s resolve was finally breaking. He was usually so good with conserving his ammunition until he had a better idea of how to combat his opponent.

He almost said something and struggled not to. He wanted to know if McCree was still silver-tongued, wanted to know if they’d fall back into the same easy banter they used to. It was a bad idea, he knew. He’d likely say something incriminating, and he wasn’t quite ready for the sharpshooter to figure it out just yet.

Cornered and out of ammunition, McCree easily switched to hand-to-hand. Reaper almost laughed, even if he found it admirable that McCree was determined not to go down easy. He took a moment to admire McCree’s prosthetic, recalling how effortlessly it had shattered bone. Unafraid of it, he collapsed into smoke and caught McCree by the throat, thumb pressed against his pulse before Reaper shot him in the forehead.

* * *

The rain had started the night before, and it was still coming down heavy.

Mud coated McCree’s boots and splattered thick on his clothes, his hat and serape the only things keeping him dry. He slipped once, and Reaper heard him grunt as he came down hard on his knee. He chased as a wraith, playing a new game, herding McCree towards the river.

McCree stopped short of the bank, feet restless in preparation to move as he scanned for a place to cross. Water churned, currents raging and wild and nearly spilling over the bank. With his heavy clothes, with his chestplate, with his arm, attempting to swim would mean sinking like a stone. 

The Reaper reformed, and the gunslinger whirled to face him. The wind whipped his hat away and carried it off, rain immediately plastering his hair to his cheeks. His jaw hardened, nose wrinkled in a snarl, eyes hard and fierce as he spun his last cartridge into Peacekeeper’s cylinder.

For a long moment, they danced at the riverbank. McCree was learning, it seemed, waiting for Reaper to solidify before he pulled the trigger. The loud crack of each shot had the hair on the back of Reaper’s neck standing on end; were he anyone else, each bullet would’ve been an instant fatality.

 _Talented_ , he thought, swallowing hard, finding it delicious.

McCree emptied Peacekeeper and bolted. Reaper caught up too easily, rushing at him, and McCree slipped in the mud as he reeled backwards. Reaper pounced, eyes locked on the rushing water that lapped at McCree’s hair, and forced his head under.

McCree struggled and very nearly bucked him off. He gripped at Reaper’s wrist hard enough to break bones, and dissolving into smoke was all that saved it from shattering. After a moment, McCree’s movements became sluggish, and his iron grip went slack.

* * *

“What a strange way to kill someone,” Angela murmured, “For a time sensitive mission.”

Genji hauled Jesse’s body out of the water. “Very odd,” he agreed solemnly. He paused, frowning underneath his faceplate, then added, “Personal.” 

“It seems that way,” Angela said, frowning. “Our only casualty today.”

“I have never seen Jesse lose so frequently,” Genji said, folding his arms. He studied Jesse’s lax features for a moment before he looked away, deeply bothered. “Perhaps it happened more often before my first arrival-”

“No,” Angela interrupted. “No, it was incredibly rare that he had an entry in the system. Jesse survived worse battles than this many times.”

“I see,” Genji said. There was another long moment of silence, then, “He refuses to speak of it, but...this is not the first time he has been specifically targeted in favor of others.”

“I know,” Angela said quietly, raising her hand. Her suit lit up, and for a moment Jesse’s corpse was blinding. He bolted upright, choking and coughing up water, the purple bruises on his neck fading with the light of the Caduceus system.

* * *

London was a common stop for packages of significant importance, it seemed, and the twisting alleyways and staggering buildings of King’s Row made for many excellent opportunities. The Reaper moved at ease here, and the gunslinger significantly less so, which was precisely why Reaper adored it. 

McCree was making it more enjoyable now too. He  was careful with his ammunition, opportunistic, and dastardly clever. Even so, the location worked against him, and Reaper had him backed into a corner in an unfortunately short amount of time.

He pushed the barrel of his shotgun up under McCree’s jaw. McCree gritted his teeth, eyes narrowed with frustrated defiance. Reaper felt giddy about it, laughter threatening to bubble up in his throat as he pressed closer and felt McCree shudder.

He didn’t struggle this time. Reaper paused, curious, considered McCree’s posture, and tried to anticipate movement.

“Why’re you doing this?” McCree asked softly. There was the faintest tremor in his voice, like he was afraid but knew inevitability when he saw it, like he knew better than to expect any outcome but death.

And there it was, the million dollar question that Reaper never asked, the question that, realistically, should’ve crossed his mind the first time McCree’s pulse stuttered under his fingers. When he didn’t answer, McCree started to say something else, but quickly closed his mouth as Reaper lifted a hand to his mask.

He slid it up over the lower half of his face. McCree’s eyes fell to the scar on his lip, and he exhaled slowly. Reaper pressed a kiss to his mouth, light and careful and very faintly longing, reminiscent of something old, hungry, and deeply rooted.

McCree’s next breath came out ragged and weak, body frozen as his muscles wound tight.

Reaper pulled the trigger.

* * *

“Your respawn count is off the charts.” 

Jesse’s hands stilled. Peacekeeper’s cleaning kit was spread out on the common room table, a clean cloth at the ready. His posture stiffened at the comment, and he glanced up with faux friendliness. “Hanzo, right?” he said by way of greeting, smile insincere.

Hanzo considered him, looking fairly unamused himself. “My brother promised me there was no shortage of experienced fighters here,” he said. “But at first glance, your battle statistics fit that of a beginner.”

He was a proud man, from the look of it. Jesse noted the way he stood, back straight and shoulders squared, and the way he lifted his chin as though perpetually disdainful, the way he kept his arms folded as if awaiting an explanation and expecting to be disappointed.  

Jesse’s mood was rapidly souring. “Mind me askin’ what you were doin’ in my files in the first place?” he asked, smile suddenly absent. “You’ll have t’forgive me if I don’t remember askin’ for your analysis.”

Hanzo’s nose wrinkled. “I have reviewed the files of every member of this organization thoroughly. Do not think yourself special.”

“And d’you go around givin’ lectures to the other too, or am I special in that regard?”

Hanzo had the grace to look embarrassed. He shifted his weight, dropping his gaze for a moment while he considered his words. “I noticed,” he said, more carefully this time, “That while your deaths are frequent, they also have an...unusual pattern.”

Jesse remained defensive, though that comment piqued his interest. “You’re talkin’ about the Reaper,” he said.

Hanzo nodded. “I have heard of him before: a ruthless assassin with supposedly supernatural abilities.”

“Supposedly,” Jesse said, as if he didn’t believe it.

Hanzo scoffed. “He is not magic, that I can assure you.”

“And I s’pose you’re some kinda expert,” Jesse said dryly, unamused.

“I was born a Shimada,” Hanzo said, a faint, smug smile on his mouth.

Jesse felt himself squint. He regarded the archer pensively for a moment, then asked, “You got a point t’make or somethin’?”

“May I sit?”

“Free country.”

Hanzo took a seat on the couch. Jesse took the opportunity to study his intricate tattoo, wondering how closely it had matched Genji’s once upon a time. For a moment, Hanzo remained quiet, letting him look, and when Jesse seemed satisfied, he said, “The Reaper’s attacks on you are personal, aren’t they?”  

Jesse glanced up from his revolver, stabbing the cleaning brush into the barrel a little harder than necessary. “Dunno,” he said. His jaw ached a bit, and he realized he was gritting his teeth. “Don’t know the guy.”

Hanzo watched him, silent for the moment, too much like Genji in the early days when he would either never sit still or sit entirely _too_ still. After a moment, he asked, “Would you have fed me a better lie if I had not caught you off guard?”

Jesse set Peacekeeper down on the table, then turned to give Hanzo his full attention. “You’re a bit of a smart ass, ain’tcha?” he asked flatly. “Thinkin’ you know somethin’ about me.”

Hanzo’s features softened, not with the pity Jesse expected, but like a man in mourning. “I know that you were one of Genji’s only friends after…” he trailed off, dropping his gaze.

“After you tried killin’ off your own kin,” Jesse finished, merciless.

Hanzo took it in stride. “Yes,” he said, boldness returning. “And he will not accept any talk of it aside from insisting I have his forgiveness. That is not enough for me. You are the next best thing.”

Jesse seemed taken aback. “You wanna use me to ease your guilty conscious,” he said incredulously.

“Put simply, yes.”  

“You’re a real ballsy fella, y’know that?”

Hanzo smiled. “Most find me a bit stiff, so that is refreshing to hear,” he admitted.

Jesse leaned back against the couch, eyeing Hanzo’s piercings and his hair. “I find that a little hard t’believe, but sure, if you say so. Y’know, Angela did more for your brother than I ever did.”

“The doctor and I are not exactly on friendly terms,” Hanzo said pointedly, then added, “And she does not have a Talon operative targeting her.”

Jesse frowned. “Fair,” he said after a moment. “What makes y’think you can help me anyhow?”

“Nothing,” Hanzo answered honestly. “I am not familiar with the Reaper’s abilities the way you are.” Jesse opened his mouth to say something incredulous, but Hanzo held his hand up and continued quickly. “However, what allows him to target you so easily is your lack of a partner. He cannot feasibly continue to kill you at the rate he does if he must focus on two instead of one.”

“The Reaper can take out two men faster than you could blink,” Jesse said sharply, then looked away.

“I should think men of our caliber would be able to hold their own longer than it would take to blink,” Hanzo said with a hint of smugness. “And I do wonder how he’d fare against ancient spirits.”

Jesse’s eyes darted to Hanzo’s tattoo. “Genji’s never-“

“Genji’s weapon requires physical contact,” Hanzo said.

“Yours don’t?”

Hanzo’s smile widened. “My dragons are a bit more…directional. Whether my arrow strikes my target or not is irrelevant.”

Jesse squinted. “Dragons, plural.”

Hanzo nodded, looking quite pleased to have a chance to bring it up, chest puffed out with pride and chin lifted with confidence. “Twins.”

Jesse couldn’t help feeling a little impressed. “Well now, ain’t you special.”

“A rarity, if you will.”

Jesse snorted. _Ballsy_. “Alright, hotshot, I’ll take you up on your offer. Ain’t no harm in tryin’, I suppose.”

“Good,” Hanzo said, satisfied, and rose from his spot on the couch. “Then I will meet you for training sometime.”

“Sure,” Jesse agreed, turning back to Peacekeeper.

Hanzo paused in the doorway. “And when you trust me,” he said, gentle, “You may tell me why you are hiding that you know him.”  

Jesse stilled. Hanzo made his exit.

* * *

It felt as though he hadn’t seen McCree in ages. In reality, it had only been near five months, but with the way he ached for a confrontation, it may as well have been years. 

“I’m cornered,” McCree rasped into his earpiece, leather glove creaking as his fingers tightened on his revolver.

Laughter rumbled from Reaper’s throat. None of McCree’s teammates had ever managed to rescue him on time before, and he doubted they would begin to now. He reformed and advanced, slow and deliberate, taking his time to enjoy the way McCree’s face reddened with angry frustration.

“Tell me why you’re doin’ this!” he shouted. “Is it because I left? S’that it?!”

Reaper let a gun dissolve into smoke and reached out. McCree snapped his hands up and fanned the hammer, cursing when Reaper dissolved to avoid the bullets, and sinking against the wall behind him as Reaper solidified again. Reaper liked how vibrant and out of place McCree looked against the pale stone of Ilios, the way the red of his clothes complimented his skin.

“Say goodnight,” he murmured, lifting a newly formed gun to press between McCree’s eyes.

McCree’s breath came out ragged. “Tell me why you’re doing all this,” he rasped.

Reaper opened his mouth to refuse, felt the air shift oddly at his back, dissolving as the tip of an arrow scratched at the leather of his hood. Rage and a strange vulnerability flooded his stomach as the arrow caught his mask and pinned it above McCree’s head.

_Someone had interrupted him, who dared, how dare-_

He heard light footsteps falling behind him as he reformed, hands over his face as a furious snarl rose from deep within his chest. McCree scrambled to his feet, shouted “Wait!” at his approaching ally, and sounded like he was about to choke.

Reaper peeked up through parted fingers, watched McCree’s face shift from horror to pained acceptance, soft brown eyes threatening to spill tears.

“Gabriel,” McCree said, voice thick, tone hinting that this was proof rather than discovery. “Gabriel-”

A headache rushed in, sudden and sharp like he’d been slapped. Reaper gritted his teeth. Something twisted hard in his stomach, nausea welling in his throat. His name pounded in his ears and he ached, dissolving again with a sharp cry and fleeing past the archer waiting in the street.

As soon as he rematerialized, Gabriel threw up.

* * *

“You do know him!”  Hanzo snapped. “I knew it! You could have been killed, standing there gaping like a fool!”

“Y’don’t get it,” Jesse said, almost pleading, looking for all intents and purposes as if he’d seen a ghost. The Reaper’s - _Gabriel’s_ \- red eyes burned in his memory. He pressed his hat down on top of his head, as if he might somehow lose it in his budding panic. “Y’don’t get it, it’s him, _god_ , I thought he was dead-”

Hanzo grabbed his arm and squeezed till it hurt. “You need to tell me who he is,” he said sharply. “You need to tell me what’s going on so I can help you.” His grip softened when Jesse only looked away and let out a half-sob, then said, “Jesse.”

“He’s supposed t’be dead,” Jesse insisted, weak. “I saw the news, they listed him among the dead. I mourned him. I’m still…” he trailed off, lowering his chin until his hat blocked any view of his eyes. “I knew it in the back of my head the first time I saw ‘im, but I just couldn’t believe it...”

Hanzo exhaled, awkwardly attempting comfort with a steadying hand on Jesse’s back. “Hush, now, you do not want to return to the others crying.”

Jesse gave a silent nod and sniffed, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He sat in the back of the transport on the way back to base, hat still low over his eyes and serape pulled up to cover his mouth.

Hanzo gave Winston a report in Jesse’s stead and visited his room immediately after. “It’s Hanzo,” he said when Jesse didn’t answer his knocks. Jesse opened the door with tears streaming down his cheeks, letting Hanzo join him on the edge of his bed.

Hanzo attempted to put his arm around Jesse’s shoulders, jumping slightly in surprise when Jesse leaned into it, weeping.

* * *

Snipers were a very consistent pain in Reaper’s ass. 

The incident in Ilios was the first of many. Killing McCree became impossible with the constant threat of arrows at his head. Reaper wouldn’t ever be killed by such a shot, not when his body immediately dissolved upon being wounded, but it prevented him from forming any decent tactical maneuvers, which in turn allowed McCree to escape.

Not that McCree tried particularly hard to escape. It seemed that he was now more interested in getting close, more interested in shouting a name Reaper hadn’t used in years. It sickened him to hear it, made his stomach twist into knots and his heart leap up into his throat, kicking his pulse into overdrive when before it’d been all but nonexistent.

Even worse, perhaps, was the way McCree and the archer - Hanzo Shimada, Reaper had discovered - all but danced together on the battlefield. It was painful watching them improve together, their wild tactics always impossibly successful in steamrolling their opponents. Their growing trust in each other grew disgustingly blatant. Reaper couldn’t count the number of times one of Hanzo’s shots had nearly skinned McCree, and yet the gunslinger remained unflinching.

No matter how well McCree survived on his own, he’d always excelled with a team, always thrived with a partner, and it boiled Reaper’s blood to know that Hanzo suited him so well.

Fuck, he hated Hanzo Shimada. He hated how happy McCree looked to be fighting alongside him, hated how the archer made it so impossible to get McCree alone, to kill him nice and slow and proper, to press another kiss to his mouth.

He thought back, just for a moment, to the look on Jesse’s face when Hanzo pinned his mask to the wall. _Gabriel_.

His stomach flipped, and a migraine rolled in faster than he could blink.

* * *

“You cripple your team if you do this,” Hanzo insisted. He played at composed, though anger plainly lined his face. “I cannot accept this.”

“Hanzo,” Winston said calmly. “You and Genji are our only stealth agents-” 

“Do not falsify information to convince me to go!” Hanzo snapped, fury suddenly let loose. “Send McCree in my stead. He and Genji have worked together in the past. He is better suited.”

Winston frowned. “That may be, but the terrain would disagree. You’re going to have to scale walls to get in, and McCree doesn’t know how to do that.”

Hanzo seemed flustered for a moment, trying to think up a new argument on the fly. “He certainly can’t be of much more use if he’s dead,” he protested.

At this, Winston shifted uncomfortably. “There’s no guarantee that the Reaper will be there this time. Mercy is very capable, and we can assign Lucio as well if that would make you more comfortable-”

Hanzo stabbed a finger in Winston’s direction, teeth gritted and jaw set. “Your medics can’t protect him,” he hissed. “You can pretend they will all you like, but they never have, and they are never going to. Revival is not protection. I demand you send me in his stead.”

“Overwatch is spread thin right now, Hanzo,” Winston said tiredly. “I can’t risk the success of missions based on personal preference. I understand full well how unpleasant death is, and I understand your worry, but death isn’t permanent thanks to the Caduceus system, and I can’t make calls pretending that it is.”

Hanzo bit out a curse in Japanese.

“It’s just this one time,” Winston tried, “If that’s any consolation.”

“It isn’t,” Hanzo said coldly, spinning on his heel towards the door.

* * *

King’s Row, for one specific reason (two perhaps, although one - which he irritably ignored - gave him a rather awful headache) was no longer his favorite, and that specific reason was Hanzo Shimada.

As Widowmaker loved to point out, the location was ideal for snipers. Buildings of wildly various heights meant for the perfect landscape to get by undetected, and that meant that for every corner he could back McCree into, Hanzo Shimada had minimum three spots from which to aim at Reaper’s head.

Rage boiled in his stomach, as it always did with the archer on his mind. Perhaps the worst part was that determining the nature of his relationship with McCree was near impossible.

He stopped short, perplexed by his own thoughts, by his own jealousy. He shouldn’t care. He _didn’t_ care, even if the blooming headache argued otherwise.

“Report,” he grumbled into his comm, gritting his teeth.

 _“Avoir de la patience,”_ came Widowmaker’s reply, smooth and unhurried, as if to spite him. After a moment, she said, _“I have a visual on your favorite monkey near the clocktower. They seem to be splitting into groups, each with a medic...ah, they really did recruit the audio medic.”_

“The omnic?” Reaper asked impatiently, scowling.

_“Absent, as predicted. You have very little faith in Sombra, chéri.”_

“I trust her about as far as I can throw her,” he muttered.

_“Quite far, I would think, as small as she is-”_

“Do you have visuals on anyone else or not?” Reaper snapped.

_“If you’re asking about the cowboy, he’s flanking Mercy. If you’re asking about the sniper, I have no visuals. You will recall Sombra informing us that he would be absent.”_

He tried not to be pleased, as he’d tried when Sombra revealed the lineup, and failed miserably. He hadn’t dared to hope before, hadn’t believed he’d get so lucky. No distractions. No interruptions, no Hanzo Shimada.

McCree fought hard this time, shouted at him while he did so. Reaper reveled in the hard force of his blows, shuddered at the way Jesse begged for him to say something, the way he called him by that name again, the way his voice made it sound like he was aching.

He swiped McCree’s legs out from under him and pounced, claw-tipped fingers tangling in Jesse’s hair, the cowboy’s hat knocked to the ground and the air knocked out of his lungs. He rasped “Gabriel-” once before rage clouded Reaper’s vision. For a moment, he felt like an outside observer, watching himself bash McCree’s head against the pavement until blood pooled thick in his soft brown hair.

For a moment he sat unmoving, still straddling McCree’s chest, shoulders heaving as if he needed to breathe. There were blackened bruises already healing over under his clothes, and he gritted his teeth as the one on his waist throbbed, left there when McCree had tried to force him off. His head pounded in time with it, a memory he didn’t want prodding at his temples.

He pressed a hard kiss to McCree’s mouth, throat feeling entirely too thick. He tasted copper on McCree’s lips, reeling back when he registered it as blood, stomach swimming and his heart stuttering to panicked life.

He scrambled to his feet, stumbling back and fleeing the scene, leaving McCree’s body lying in the road. He slipped into wraith, floated through King’s Row blindly until he regained his form, tore off his bloodied gloves and sank to his knees in an alley.

His stomach twisted. He threw up.

* * *

“Agent Hanzo,” Athena begins, sounding faintly alarmed, “Your heart rate is quite rapid-“  
  
“Thank you, I’m pissed,” Hanzo interrupted briskly, storming towards Winston’s desk. Winston looked tired, halfway through his mission report, armor sporting new scuffs and dents.  

“I know you’re upset-” Winston tried.

“Good,” Hanzo snapped. “Then I do not have to explain myself. Do not separate us again.”

“Hanzo-”

Hanzo slammed his hand on the desk, jaw set and eyes burning with restraint. Movement caught Winston’s eye, and he swore he saw Hanzo’s ink shifting. “Understand this,” he said, voice quieter than it ought to be, tone cold and unrelenting. “Until this...nonsense with the Reaper stops, you will not send him out without me, or I will leave, and then you will have no snipers while Talon possesses a master. Am I clear?”

Winston frowned. “Hanzo, I can’t just promise that nothing will come up while you’re away-” 

“Am I clear?” Hanzo repeated, louder.

Winston sighed. “Crystal,” he said, making an ‘ok’ sign with his fingers, too exhausted to argue further.

“Then I trust there will be no further records of the Reaper murdering McCree,” Hanzo said, satisfied.

Winston sighed again as Hanzo left, rubbing at his temples. Athena said, “At least his heart rate is slowing.”

* * *

He craved it, the signs of fear, the way sweat gathered on McCree's brow, the way he struggled, the way his pulse stuttered. It burned in his chest, ached in his bones, pumped through his heart alongside his blood on the rare occasion that his heart beat.

He found his chance in Lijiang. The archer would be close, he was sure, but it didn’t stop him from scouring the area for a red serape, didn’t stop him from desperately following it until he had McCree cornered again. 

“I been waitin’ for you,” McCree said, careful but not hesitant. Peacekeeper was gripped tightly in his hand, though his arm hung by his side, unthreatening.  

His heart hammered, his stomach twisted. He paused, just for a moment, then advanced, slow and easy.

“Will you talk to me?” McCree asked, gentle. “Just once.”

“No,” the Reaper said, cold and short.

“Well, honeybee, you know better than anybody how much I like t’run my mouth,” McCree replied, smiling around his cigar. It didn’t reach his eyes.

He gritted his teeth, stopped in his tracks. “Don’t call me that,” he hissed.

“Alright, alright, I won’t,” McCree said.

The Reaper hated it, hated his honeyed voice and smooth tones, hated the way he kept trying to talk like it would _matter_ , as if anything he could say would make up for-

He gritted his teeth harder, feeling himself breach the beginnings of falling apart. His body felt out of alignment, not in wraith but not entirely solid, like a tower of sand ready to come crashing down at the slightest touch.

He reached out, shotgun forming at his fingertips, and a searing heat suddenly rushed over his body. McCree’s body was bathed in bright blue when he looked, expression pitying and perhaps even a little fearful. Reaper shuddered in and out of solidity, mask skewed as he sank to the floor, the tails of dragons vanishing beyond the tower walls. His ears rang, vision swaying, his whole world off kilter and his brain buzzing with painful awareness.

Smoke swirled in his hands, and something sharp prodded through the leather at the back of his head, crackling with something oddly electric. “Tempt me,” came Hanzo’s voice.

“Easy now,” McCree said gently. There was a long, hesitant pause, then, “Gabriel.”

Reaper let out a low, angry noise.

“I’ll be damned,” McCree said quietly, near watery. “Ain’t heard that voice in years.”

“Fuck you,” Reaper spat.

“You’re usin’ his voice and glarin’ at me with his eyes, but that ain’t really Gabriel talkin’, is it?” McCree asked mournfully. “They did somethin’ to you, like with Lacroix.”  

Reaper’s leather gloves squeaked as he tightened his hands into fists.

“Gabriel,” McCree said softly. “Lemme help you. I know y-”

Rage boiled over and escaped him in a scream as he melted into smoke. Hanzo and McCree stepped abruptly stepped back, and he fled the tower in a thick stream of ash.

He reformed nearby, breathless and panicked, listening to the soft drone of their voices. _Next time,_ the archer said. _Next time,_ McCree repeated.  

His chest ached. He thought about what he would’ve done if Hanzo hadn’t stopped him, and something twisted hard in his belly. He decided to interpret it as relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a few lovely people draw fanart for this fic, and I'll be adding a masterpost to the blog soon!! If you don't see your work there when it comes up, please message me and let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Memories are in italics. Thanks to sassafrascats for beta reading! 
> 
> Listen to [Slip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMzjbyZhM5U) by Elliot Moss. [Full playlist here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/violetwreck/playlist/5Bgfe8TPNbpRNQeqminE4t)

_The first time he allowed McCree on the field was when he first noticed a problem. Newly nineteen and fresh out of basic training, the cowboy slept as if waiting to be shot._

_“Nervous, Liebre?” Reyes asked, after McCree tossed and turned for the third time in a matter of minutes._

_“No,” McCree answered smoothly. Then, a moment later, “A little.”_

_Reyes rolled onto his side, studying the shadowed outline of McCree’s face. He’d filled out since the bust, cheeks rounder, less hollow, frame broader, less skinny. “This is a light mission,” he said by way of reassurance. “Nothing you wouldn’t already be used to.”_

_McCree paused for what seemed like a long time. “You gonna send me to jail if I fuck this up?” he asked finally._

_Reyes blinked owlishly in the dark. “No,” he said, more honest out of surprise than sincerity. “Is that how you think this works?”_

_McCree glanced at him. “Ain’t it?”_

_“No,” Reyes said, tone almost making it a question. “Why would I go through all this trouble just to ship you off at your first mistake?”_

_“I don’t know,” McCree admitted._

_“Well,” Reyes said, “I wouldn’t.”_

_“Oh.”_

_“Don’t fuck up, though. I’d like to go home in one piece. Maximum, two.”_

_It was meant as a joke, but McCree didn’t laugh. “I won’t.”_

_Reyes chalked up his sleeping habits as nerves. Later on base, he caught McCree up late, nursing a beer in the kitchen. A one time thing, McCree promised, after Reyes brought up his age. After that, Reyes found him up late smoking._

_“Are you having nightmares?” Reyes said after the fifth time._

_“No,” Jesse answered honestly._

_“Are you sleeping?”_

_“No.”_

_Reyes sent him to the med bay. The physician prescribed sleeping pills. McCree flushed them down the toilet._

* * *

He blinked awake after seeing Gabriel’s face. 

It was a little blurry, truthfully, and that made him ache something fierce. Over the last seven years, Gabriel’s features had slowly begun to fade from his memory. Even now, with the few recent glances he’d had, Gabriel’s image was new and muddled: unfamiliar scars, smoke curling from his skin, unkempt _graying_ hair.

That might’ve been what ached the most, the fact that he hadn’t been around to see Gabriel’s dark curls finally go salt and pepper.

Or perhaps what ached the most was the fact that Gabriel had been alive all this time, and Jesse hadn’t had any idea.

He’d known, from the moment he saw the Reaper, that something wasn’t right. He’d made up excuses, reasoned that Gabriel would never ally with Talon, that it was impossible for even him to survive Switzerland. He’d blocked out the fact that Amelie Lacroix’s ghost was regularly found nearby, convinced himself that the Reaper couldn’t be Gabriel with the way the mercenary hunted him down.

He wondered if Gabriel was really aware of what he was doing. Imagining _Gabriel_ laying hands on him in place of a masked assassin was enough to make him sick.

He tossed and turned in his bed. Gabriel’s distraught cry echoed in his ears, his stiff hesitation burned into the back of Jesse’s eyelids. After an hour, he headed for the roof, cigar tucked in between his teeth and a bottle in his hand, prosthetic abandoned on his bedside table.

* * *

“Longing.” 

Gabriel pressed against the glass, body slipping into smoky tendrils that curled at the edges of his prison, searching for a crack in the seals that he could slip out of.

“Decay.”

“Stop,” he hissed, reforming. His body ached, hands smearing ashes against the panels.

“Seventy-six. Daybreak, furnace.”

His head hurt. His vision blurred. The disembodied voice echoed in his ears, one way mirrors keeping him from seeing who it belonged to.

“Three, benevolence.”  

“Please,” he gasped, desperate. A kind face faded from his memory, soft brown eyes disappearing into muddled features.

“Slate.”

Sweat gathered at his temple, breath he didn’t need catching in his throat. His muscles seized and relaxed right after, form slipping from his control. He lost his sense of direction, suddenly unsure of what was left or right or up or down, every fibre of his being consumed in painful confusion.

“One.”  

His body pieced itself back together, his jaw locked and his teeth gritted.

“Switzerland.”

Reaper exhaled, covering his face with his hand, bone white mask forming under his fingertips.  

* * *

He focused on recovering the cargo, a data chip from Helix Securities, but he could feel prying eyes on him.

Hanzo Shimada’s gaze nearly burned like the dragons that scorched the Reaper during their last encounter. He remembered the feeling the moment he laid eyes on the archer’s tattoo and immediately wondered how it was possible that he’d forgotten about it. He let his thoughts linger on it for a moment, but something about the memory remained hazy. For now, he only remembered pieces: a  bright blue light, an arrow that never landed, and the putrid smell of smoke, ash, and rot. 

Hanzo didn’t waste any arrows sending them Reaper’s way. Reaper scowled at the speed at which the sniper took down his men, scowled harder as he heard the distinct sound of a revolver’s shot.

Something twisted hard in Reaper’s belly, something like a cocktail of anxiety and excitement. His pulse pounded in his ears, heart kickstarted by a displaced sense of hope, a prayer that a confrontation would let loose the foggy memories he couldn’t jog himself.

He rounded a corner, searching for the young agent who’d snatched the chip - Tracer, Sombra had supplied, and hadn’t that seemed familiar - only to come face to face with a cowboy. For a moment, they stared at each other, Reaper’s eyes hidden and McCree’s wide. Reaper’s gaze darted to McCree’s hand, to the revolver he’d heard going off in the distance.

McCree stood still, fingers lax on the handle as if unthreatened. Reaper felt himself seize up, like his chest might cave in, like -

_Gabriel_. Then, it had sounded unsurprised, pained.

“Gabriel,” McCree said, slow and careful, hopeful this time.  

His own name shook him - _his_ name, not the Reaper, _Gabriel_ \- and those memories he’d wanted knocked loose only seemed to throb in the back of his head. He brought up his shotgun in alarm and dissolved right after, Hanzo’s arrow striking the ground in his place.

Nearby, he could hear them talking in hushed tones, Hanzo’s voice carrying concern.

He felt nauseous.

* * *

“He hesitated,” Hanzo said, giving Jesse a once-over for injuries. “Are you hurt?”   

“Mmm,” Jesse hummed. “Fine.” He exhaled. “Don’t like hearin’ his name very much, seems like.”

Hanzo paused. “It must not be easy,” he said after a moment, “to willfully abandon one’s entire identity, artificially constructed or not.”

Jesse glanced at him. “That experience talkin’, or observation?”

Hanzo’s brows knitted. “Both, I suppose,” he said after a moment. “Though less excusable in my regard.”

Jesse frowned, though he didn’t press. “I dunno if gettin’ him back’s even possible,” he admitted. “Maybe he recognized me, sure, but Lacroix killed her own husband, and he hadn’t had a damn clue she was even aimin’ to try.”

Hanzo’s eyes flitted to Jesse’s face before he returned his gaze to the arrow stuck in the path. “I think,” he said carefully, stepping forward to pluck it free, “that if he was completely theirs to control, he would not have paid you any mind at all.” He paused, then added, “And he hesitated, which means he is slipping.” 

Jesse considered that, then brightened just a bit, though his smile was bittersweet.

* * *

_Jesse bolted upright, gasping and trembling. He could hear Reyes’s voice in his ear, steady and repetitive, though he could only barely decipher the words as his own name. Everything was spinning and his head was pounding and he felt like he might puke -_  

_“McCree,” Reyes said._

_Jesse’s hands fumbled wildly over his belly, fingers seeking a wound that wasn’t there. His shirt was ripped open, damp and red with blood. He’d seen his own blood seeping through his gear, he’d been shot, he’d_ died _-_

_“McCree!” Reyes said, louder. Jesse barely registered Reyes gripping his wrists. “Look at me, agent.”_

_Everything looked fuzzy. Jesse could just barely make out dark hair and tawny skin, eyes darting over what must have been his commander’s face. He opened his mouth to respond and only managed raspy sounds of panic, fingers clutching at Reyes’ hoodie._

_“McCree!” Reyes said sharply, then, softer, “Jesse. You’re fine, hear me? You’re alive.”_

_Jesse blinked once, then again rapidly, eyes focusing only for his vision to blur with tears. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, throat too tight to allow for more than a whisper._

_“Eyes on me, Liebre,” Reyes ordered when Jesse’s gaze wandered to the other agents and the medic who’d worked to revive him. “You’re fine, alright? Just breathe.”_

_Jesse inhaled and exhaled slowly until his heart stopped hammering, though he still trembled. “Is...does it always feel like this?” he rasped._

_Reyes looked surprised at the question. “I don’t think so,” he said after a moment. “Usually only first reactions are this severe, at least.”_

_Jesse blinked again, vision clearing as tears fell. What a strange way to answer the question, he thought, as if Reyes had never been resurrected before._

* * *

Coming back from death always felt like waking up from a painfully vivid nightmare. 

He sat up sharply, gasping for breath as tremors wracked his body, a throbbing pain in his forehead soothed by the cold sensation of Angela’s Caduceus staff.

“Are you alright, Jesse?” Angela asked, voice muddled through the ringing in his ears.

“Will be in a minute,” he replied, rubbing his eyes. “Christ. What nailed me?”

“A sniper,” came Hanzo’s voice to his left, tone hardened as if he was gritting his teeth. “The Widowmaker. I failed to locate her in time. I apologize.”

Jesse waited for his vision to stop swimming. After a moment, he said, “Reckon it was unlucky positionin’ that made me bite the dust. Ain’t nothin’ for you to apologize for.”

Hanzo looked deeply dissatisfied by this. He opened his mouth to  protest but shut it in the same moment, eyes downcast and his jaw set. His fingers tightened in the fabric of his hakama until his knuckles turned white, and Jesse wondered if he was thinking about Genji.

A mean part of him thought Hanzo deserved the weight of that guilt. He felt that was justified, all things considered. But he felt a little guilty himself too; he was in Hanzo’s debt and he liked Hanzo…mostly.

“Ain’t your fault,” he said again because he couldn’t help it.

“She will not best me again,” Hanzo swore, elegantly furious.

“On the bright side,” Angela chimed in, making an attempt at lightheartedness, “I haven’t needed to resurrect you for some time, Jesse.”

“Very true,” Jesse said gratefully. “Any other casualties?”

“Tracer,” Angela answered, brows knitting. “But her accelerator is still intact, luckily.”

“Mm,” Jesse hummed, relieved and sympathetic all at once. “That’s good, I suppose.”

Angela nodded. Hanzo’s gaze remained downcast. Jesse thought he ought to say something encouraging and quickly decided that kind of thing wasn’t his strongest suit. Even so, he managed, “The mission went off fine, at least.”  

If Hanzo disagreed, he didn’t say so.

* * *

The more he visited King’s Row, the less he liked it.

It was the base of the clocktower that got him, and deja vu was so rarely kind. He remembered the Omnic here, equipped with a sword; he remembered the sharp, rapid fire of gunshots. He remembered the concern that gave way to dismissiveness because of course McCree could handle it, of course he could - 

“Aren’t you always chiding me for having my head in the clouds?” Sombra said into his earpiece.

Reaper blinked. He’d watched the tape because he’d had to, because he was the Commander, because the whole thing was his fault, because he hadn’t believed the news when he’d heard. He could see it still, hear it even. Why had he ever liked King’s Row?

“I’m fine,” he replied, though she hadn’t really asked, then in the open channel, “Amélie, report once you’re in position.”

The silence that followed was near deafening. For a moment, the Reaper wondered if his communicator was malfunctioning.

Widowmaker, breathless, asked, “Why did you call me that?”

He blinked again. Under the clocktower, he imagined he could hear Jesse scream.

“Call you what?” he asked. Sombra made a noise of interest.

* * *

_“You didn’t rest long enough,” Reyes scolded, after McCree collapsed against him in the hall._  

_“M’fine,” McCree mumbled, struggling to get to his feet._

_“You’re not,” Reyes insisted. “Look at you.” He tossed McCree’s arm over his shoulder and hoisted him up, minding the bandaged bullet wound on his ribs. McCree gritted his teeth, cheeks flushed red and a sheen of sweat gathering on his brow._

_“You didn’t take your meds,” Reyes accused._

_“Hate ‘em,” McCree rasped. “I hate ‘em so bad.”_

_“Most would hate this more,” Reyes pointed out. McCree stumbled again, knees nearly knocking against the floor, and Reyes let out a soft curse. “You have to take your pain medication,” he said, authoritative, then added, “Or rest more.” He softened, then asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you were in so much pain?”_

_“‘Cause I hate ‘em,” McCree murmured, weak. “I ain’t takin’ ‘em.”_

_Reyes hooked his arm under McCree’s knees and scooped him up. McCree let out a small cry of pain before gritting his teeth and slumping against Reyes’ shoulder, breath short and uneven. Reyes said, “If you won’t take them, you have to rest.”_

_McCree breathed, jaw locked tight._

_“You should’ve told me,” Reyes said._

_“Didn’t wanna hold up work,” McCree admitted. He said it quietly, whispered it almost, and Reyes thought that was the loudest he’d ever been about the whole thing._

_He steered away from the med bay because he knew that was what McCree wanted, and because he knew Dr. Zeigler’s insistence that he take pain medication would only serve to make McCree more adamant about refusing it. “You spend too much time trying to prove yourself,” he said._

_McCree huffed a soft laugh and winced immediately after. Reyes added, “I’m not sending you to prison, especially for needing recovery time.You know that.”_

_McCree fell silent._

_“Atlas, the door,” Reyes said upon reaching McCree’s quarters. The AI responded with a polite, “Yes, Commander Reyes,” and the door slid open with a faint hiss. Reyes laid McCree down on his bed, careful with the wound, and checked for blood before pulling off the cowboy’s boots._

_“I’m not going to send you to prison,” he said. “You’ve been with us four years. You want these jeans off?”_

_McCree stared at him, eyes flitting over Reyes’ face as though he was seeing the man for the first time. After a moment, he nodded and undid his belt, and Reyes pulled his jeans off by the ankles._

_“I don’t want to see you working again until you aren’t feeling any pain,” Reyes said firmly, pulling McCree’s covers up to the gunslinger’s chin. “That’s an order.”_

_“Yes, sir,” McCree rasped._

_Reyes dumped McCree’s jeans into the hamper. “And when you’re feeling up to it,” he added, “Clean up this fucking room.”_

_Jesse would tell him, years later, that this was the moment he realized he’d gone and fallen in love with him._

* * *

He woke trembling, head filled with ideas of what Talon must have done, phantom pains shooting up his arm. 

Jesse dragged a hand down his face and felt sweat gathering on his forehead. His room felt too small, too stuffy, like the walls intended to suffocate him.  

He wondered briefly, as he pulled on pants and lit a cigar with one hand, what Talon was doing to be able to make Gabriel forget himself. He left his prosthetic on the bedside table and slinked to the kitchen, caught up in his thoughts, and moved aside milk jugs to get at his whiskey.

On the roof, Jesse stopped short. Hanzo sat with his legs dangling over the edge, sipping sake from his gourd.

“I am sorry I failed to protect you,” Hanzo said without looking up, “And for taking your spot.”

Jesse paused, then huffed and sat beside him. “Not sorry enough to not do it in the first place,” he said.

Hanzo smiled. “No, not quite that sorry.”

Jesse popped the cap off his whiskey. Hanzo glanced at the label and wrinkled his nose, noting Jesse’s lack of a cup quietly. Jesse said, “I don’t need no protectin’, either. Just some help here’n there.”

Hanzo frowned. “You say that,” he said carefully, as if in attempt to spare Jesse’s pride, “because you still fight like a loner, despite being on a team, which is the reason your Gabriel was able to take you down in the first place.”

Jesse paused, bottle halfway to his mouth. “So do you,” he said. “Fight like a loner, I mean.”

Hanzo shot him a flat look.

Jesse waved his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, sniper, I know.”

“And besides that,” Hanzo continued with a faint sigh of annoyance, “If you will forgive my saying so, you visibly hesitate in battle with him.”

“You two are real observant,” Jesse said. “You and Genji.” He took a hefty gulp of whiskey, sighing as it burned down his throat. “Tell me what you think you know, archer.”

“I think,” Hanzo said, tongue loose, pleasantly buzzed on sake, “that in your heart, you knew who he was from the moment you saw him. That is why you behaved the way you did when I first offered you assistance. And I think you wanted so badly to believe he was dead that you very nearly convinced yourself of it.” He paused, thoughtful, and took another sip from his gourd. “It sounds like survivor’s guilt.”

Jesse laughed, took a long drag from his cigar. “You like people watchin’?”

“Reading others is a skill I nurtured from a young age,” Hanzo replied simply, perhaps too knowing.

Jesse only grunted in response. Hanzo waited, then added, “I cannot read minds, however.”

_Nosy,_ Jesse thought, though he supposed Hanzo couldn’t be blamed. “He was my commander,” he said after a moment.

“I know that much.”

“Everybody thought,” Jesse went on, as if Hanzo hadn’t spoken, wrinkling his nose as he took another gulp of whiskey, “that I was real dedicated to my job, back in the day. Thought Blackwatch meant everythin’ to me.”

“Did it not?” Hanzo asked, casual in a way that implied he knew Jesse would say no.

Jesse tapped ash from the end of his cigar over the roof’s edge. “I never gave a damn about Blackwatch,” he said. “Blackwatch was shit.”

Hanzo looked out towards the city. “You were devoted to Reyes, then.”

“I loved him,” Jesse said openly. “Still do. M’sure you’ve figured that out, all things considered.”

Hanzo nodded. “Were you lovers?”

Jesse snorted. “Were we lovers,” he chortled, taking another swig. “You ever been in love, Hanzo?”

Hanzo considered it. “No,” he said after a moment.

“It’s awful,” Jesse said. “Makes you feel like you can do just about anythin’. Makes you think nothin’ tragic’s ever gonna happen to you. That’s a dangerous kinda thinkin’ in this line of work.”

Hanzo took the bottle from Jesse’s hand and almost drank from it, though he changed his mind when he smelled it and handed it back. Jesse snorted at him. “You sound as though you loved him very deeply,” he said.

Jesse almost took a drink too, but ended up setting the bottle between his legs. “I wanted to  take him with me when I left,” he said, rolling his cigar between his fingers. “Woulda spent the rest of my life with him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“He wouldn’t go.”

Hanzo nodded, sure of himself. “Survivor’s guilt.”

“Y'know,” Jesse said suddenly, “I convinced myself it wasn’t him because I always thought that if he was alive, he’d come find me. And I don’t know if I was wrong because he wouldn’t have or because he couldn’t.”

“You could ask him,” Hanzo said. “Some day.”

“Think so?”

“Yes.”

“Might be too late,” Jesse said and snatched up his whiskey, tossing it back quick. His voice came out raspy, throat tight, words slurred. “Might be he’s like Lacroix by now. The Widowmaker. They call ‘er that because she killed her own husband.”

“We have talked of this before,” Hanzo said, no nonsense. “He would not slip if he was beyond saving.” He huffed, mock annoyed. “You are too stubborn to lose him twice, in any case.”

“I didn’t know you could be nice, Hanzo,” Jesse said, cheeky, eyebrow raised.

“I didn’t intend to be.” Hanzo rose from his spot, corking his gourd. “You are already drunk,” he said. “Do not fall off the roof.”

“I think you care about me or somethin’,” Jesse accused.

“I think you are drunk,” Hanzo returned.

Jesse considered that and decided it was very true. “Hey,” he said, before Hanzo disappeared down the stairs. “Hanzo. You’re alright, y’know that?”

Hanzo paused, then continued on his way with no reply.

* * *

The Reaper remembered needing sleep, vaguely, but that was a time before the war. Since then, sleep had become more of a hobby, something to rest his mind rather than his body. He remembered, on occasion, a warmth in his bed, and he remembered when ‘on occasion’ became ‘frequent’ and ‘frequent’ became ‘every night’. It was all hazy, vague, dreamlike, every soft touch and whispered sweet nothing, every quiet bout of laughter,  every comfort after nightmares, every cup of coffee in the morning. 

Recalling it all made his stomach twist. The coffee he made on base wasn’t the same. He wasn’t sure what brand of cigar it was that he used to smell on his pillow. He missed the warmth and the stolen kisses in the hall and laced fingers when no one was looking. He missed the laughter lines caught at the corner of brown eyes, and the crooked, lilting smile and _damn_ , his head pounded the longer he thought of it.

He knew, logically, that his rage stemmed from a sense of abandonment and wounded pride,  and that he only felt those things because he’d had something divine once; whenever he tried to consider it further than that, a migraine rushed in. He was only dimly struck with the unfairness of it — that he felt fury at some faint, vague thing and only a mild frustration that he couldn’t properly remember what it was in the first place.

Something twisted hard in his stomach. His mouth tasted like ash, and pressure built between his eyes. Where there was a gap in his memory the day before, there was a new rush of thought: the Crisis, Jack Morrison, enhancement programs, Deadlock, Mr. and Mrs. Lacroix, and the acrid smell of black coffee.

* * *

It only occurred to him that something was amiss when Amélie - the Widowmaker - attempted to put a bullet through the back of his head. He wraithed, automatic, and when he gathered himself, he registered that the six bodies at his feet were Talon agents. 

He stumbled back, eyes wide, studied the speckled holes in their armor and realized they’d come from his shotguns. He’d done this before. _He’d done this before_ , back when he’d been called ‘Commander’ instead of ‘the Reaper.’ _The Reaper_ , he mouthed to himself, and it sat heavy on his tongue, all wrong and thick and sour. Longing, decay, seventy-six, daybreak, furnace, three, benevolence, slate, one, Switzerland.

In the open channels, Ogundimu’s voice barked sharp orders about containment. That was wrong, that was all wrong, why was Doomfist out of prison? Had he -

Another gunshot interrupted his thoughts. He managed four more kills, and it felt alarmingly natural. He rounded a street corner - _Venice_ , Italy, red fabric shrouded his shoulders - and ducked out of Widowmaker’s line of sight, dragging an agent’s body with him because they all have it, they all carried -

_“Reaper!”_ Ogundimu barked into his channel. _“Return to the ship immediately, that’s an order -”_

Gabriel winced as his comm crackled. Sombra clicked her tongue in his ear. _“Me debes un favor,”_ she said lightly, intrigued. _“Listen, Gabe - you don’t mind if I call you Gabe, do you?”_

His throat closed up. On the agent’s belt, there was a glass cylinder, capped at either end with airtight seals, a monitor at the top, and a switch. _Contain him,_ Ogundimu had said. Just looking at it - are the streets getting smaller? - made his stomach twist into knots. He unclipped the cylinder from the agent’s belt and tucked it into his clothes, heart hammering loud in his ear. Possibly, he could use it for a bargaining chip.

He thought about the way Jesse’s pulse had stuttered, and bile rose in his throat.

_“I assume you know to avoid those vacuum cylinders,”_ Sombra said, as if she was discussing a grocery list. _“I think now would be an ideal time to leave. Doomfist isn’t too happy with you.”_ She seemed a bit mirthful at this, and Gabriel thought for a moment that he ought to scold her. _“Gabe. Look, we’re friends, no? I like you. So your tracker’s down, whoops! I wonder how that happened.”_

Everything seemed to move too fast and too slow all at once. Gabriel remained vaguely aware of terrified shouts in the streets. Backup would advance on him any second now.  

_“I hear Gibraltar’s nice this time of year,”_ Sombra said thoughtfully, right before Gabriel's comm crackled again and died. Gabriel felt a prick of annoyance at the suggestion, as if he hadn’t been going there anyhow, and spared a brief moment to debate if being Sombra’s ‘friend’ was a good or absolutely awful thing.

Nearing shouts interrupted his thoughts. Ogundimu sounded enraged.

“Fuck,” Gabriel breathed and slipped away into smoke.

* * *

_The transport was quiet, save for the chatter of teeth._  

_All agents aboard slept except for McCree, and Reyes sat by his size dozing with his arms crossed over his chest, only kept conscious by the click of McCree’s teeth. He could feel the young man’s eyes on him, anxious and ashamed, and every so often, he would shiver so hard that his clothes squeaked against the leather seat. McCree’s wet hair clung to his cheeks and wet clothes to his body. Reyes’ own curls still dripped with water, clothes still damp except for the extra jacket he’d left on the transport. Both of them had lost their hats._

_After a moment, McCree said quietly, “Thought you were gonna leave me.”_

_Reyes cracked open an eye, brows knitted with irritation. “Have you_ ever _seen me leave a man behind?”_

_McCree’s teeth clacked. “N-no, sir.”_

_“So why would I leave you?”_

_There was a lengthy pause. “I don’t know,” McCree said after a while, almost pitifully._

_Reyes huffed, opening his other eye to give the full effect of his glare. “You said you could swim,” he said. “When you were interviewed for your agent profile, you said you could swim.”_

_McCree’s shoulders hunched. He had the grace to look embarrassed and kept his gaze on his boots. “Yes, sir,” he admitted._

_“So explain to me why I had to come save your ass.”_

_For all his height, McCree managed to look small. “I lied, sir.”_

_“And how’d that go for you?”_

_McCree didn’t answer._

_“How’d that go for you, Agent McCree?” Reyes said, sharper. The nearest agents stirred._

_McCree winced. “I almost drowned,” he answered, then added, an afterthought, “Sir.”_

_“And what would’ve happened if I hadn’t just happened to look up right before you went under?”_

_McCree’s leg shook anxiously, heel tapping lightly on the transport floor. “Woulda got myself killed,” he mumbled._

_“And I wouldn’t have been able to get you back,” Reyes snapped. “You would’ve died, and the river would’ve swept you along because the water’s flooding the banks, and your ass would be cooked. I’d have been lucky to find you in twenty-four hours. Caduceus wouldn’t have been able to save you, even if I’d been able to drag you back to base. So, tell me what you’re not going to fucking do again.”_

_McCree’s cheeks reddened. “Lie.”_

_“Specifically.”_

_“Lie to you about my combat abilities.”_

_“Good,” Reyes huffed. “You’ll start lessons tomorrow. Anything else in your file you might want to correct?”_

_“No, sir.”_

_“Good,” Reyes repeated, in a finalized kind of tone, then shut his eyes with the intent to doze off again._

_McCree hesitated, then said miserably, “I didn’t wanna seem incapable.”_

_Reyes sighed. “Liebre,” he said. “You aren’t going to impress anyone pretending to have skills you don’t. You know that.”_

_“Yes, sir…”_

_“You wanna try for any more excuses, or can I sleep?”_

_“I -”  McCree hesitated again, then, “No, but -”_

_“Spit it out.”_

_“I had a question,” McCree blurted. “I was wonderin’ why you keep callin’ me that.”_

_“What, ‘jackass’?”_

_McCree shot him a look. “Jackrabbit.”_

_Reyes seemed amused. “Oh, well, pardon me.”_

_“You been calling me that since you let me on the field, but you ain’t ever said why.”_

_“Why I call you a jackass?”_

_“Reyes.”_

_“It’s because you’re a fast learner,” Reyes answered finally. “Quick thinking, intuitive.” He paused for dramatic effect, then added, “Usually.”_

_McCree made a face. “Ouch,” he said, voice flat._

_“You deserve it,” Reyes said matter-of-factly, eyes closed again. “Now go to sleep.”_

_McCree’s jaw rattled as he shivered. Reyes tossed him his jacket._

* * *

The proximity alert went off in the evening, close to dusk. 

“Don’t rush,” Hanzo scolded, bow in hand.

“I’m tryin’,” Jesse said, anxious and flushed. “Think my heart might beat outta my chest.”

“You need to approach this with caution,” Hanzo insisted. Jesse picked up his pace, and Hanzo lengthened his stride to keep up as they headed towards the hangar. “We do not yet know what he wants.”

“I know,” Jesse said hurriedly.

“And yet you are not slowing down,” Hanzo said irritably.

Winston met them in the hangar, glasses slightly askew on his face as if he’d run there too. “McCree -” he started, holding up his hand.  
  
“I really hope you ain’t aimin’ to stop me,” Jesse said tiredly, ducking past.

Hanzo shot Winston an equally tired look for different reasons. Winston trailed after them, pleading reason. “The last time he was here, he nearly took the locations of every ex-Overwatch agent in the database -”

Jesse paused at the door. “Winston,” he said, a warning.

Winston stopped. Jesse paid him no more mind. Hanzo nocked an arrow and followed him outside.  

Gabriel stood a few hundred yards out, maskless and dressed in frilly red clothes, standing still as a stone. Jesse’s heart leapt in his chest, hopeful fondness swelling behind his ribs at the sight of gray in Gabriel’s curls.

Jesse stopped a few feet away from the man, as if getting closer might mean he’d vanish. “The hell’re you wearin’, sweetheart?” he asked softly, flashing a smile.

Gabriel hesitated a moment before meeting Jesse’s eyes. “Something better than your get-up,” he answered, somber tones not matching the tease. “Hey, Liebre.”

Jesse’s face lit up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I can get chapter 3 reworked a bit faster. Thanks to everyone who's still reading even after the long waits and hiatuses.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Memories are in italics. 
> 
> Listen to [If All Else Fails](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1eGF_pofR0) by Eyeris. [Full playlist here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/violetwreck/playlist/5Bgfe8TPNbpRNQeqminE4t)

Gabriel’s heartbeat soared to life when Jesse walked out of the base, a mix of glee, anxiousness, and guilt swimming in his chest. Jesse, his sweetheart; Jesse, who’d left years ago; Jesse, whom he’d killed.

Jesse approached with all the carelessness in the world, the archer at his heels. Gabriel struggled to recall his name and only remembered a burning blue light and the awful smell of decay.

“The hell are you wearing, sweetheart?” Jesse asked fondly. He stepped too close for Gabriel’s liking, even with the few feet of distance between them.

“Something better than your get-up,” he answered somberly. “Hey, Liebre.”

Jesse’s face lit up and Gabriel’s heart raced...as much as his heart could race, at least. He felt a little lightheaded, almost dizzy; had his heart ever beat this quickly since the procedure? Jesse smiled. Gabriel wondered if the cowboy was trying to kill him. “Missed that somethin’ awful,” Jesse admitted. He paused, then asked, “Does Talon know you’re here?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No. Or I didn’t tell them where I was going, at least.”

“They got trackers in you?”

“Disabled,” Gabriel answered. “But it won’t be hard for them to guess.”

“Well,” Jesse said, “Reckon they know where we are already.”

“Right,” Gabriel said quietly. He remembered raiding Gibraltar only because it’d hurt, because he’d had to piece himself back together after the whole ordeal. The memory of an electric current thrumming through his body was as clear as day.

“Gabriel?” Jesse asked.

Gabriel blinked. Jesse was looking at him expectantly; the archer, with wariness. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s alright, sugar, just tell me what happened,” Jesse said gently.

Gabriel exhaled. “I opened my eyes and realized I was killing Talon agents in Venice. Sombra disabled my tracker and my communicator, and I came here in the cargo hold of a passenger plane.” “They’ll be looking for me.”

“They ain’t gonna find you,” Jesse promised. He stepped forward, reaching, and Gabriel froze —

“How do we know we can trust you?” the archer interrupted.

Jesse stopped reaching, relief crashing down on Gabriel as he reached into the folds of his clothes. “I have this," he began to offer.

The archer stepped in front of Jesse lightning quick, bow drawn. “Do not move!” he barked.

Gabriel reeled back, heartbeat stuttering to a halt at the spark of blue light that crackled over his tattoo, _Shimada_ suddenly springing to memory. Jesse jumped in front of him, arms spread as if that would block a dragon. “Whoah, whoah!” he yelled. “Easy Hanzo, let him be!”

“You trust too easily!” Hanzo spat. “What if he’d drawn his weapon?!”

“It’s a containment vessel!” Gabriel shouted. Both looked at him, and Jesse’s features shifted oddly when he saw how far Gabriel had retreated. _Too close._ “It’s a containment vessel,” he repeated, softer, pulling it out of his clothes. “Talon used it to restrain me if I woke up.”

The archer eyed him with suspicion. Jesse’s gaze fell to the device with measured horror, and after a moment, he stepped closer again and took it from Gabriel’s hand. (Their fingers brushed. Gabriel swallowed thickly for more than one reason.)

“How’s this work?” Jesse asked, voice a little hoarse.

“It’s like a vacuum,” Gabriel answered.

“But how do you — ”

“It keeps me in my wraith form,” Gabriel interrupted quickly, as if ashamed. “The seals keep me from slipping out. If I started remembering who I was, that’s how they transported me to a larger unit for reconditioning.”

Jesse swore. Shimada lowered his bow.

“I don’t expect you to trust me,” Gabriel said, honest and pleading. “I just don’t want to go back.”

“Sweetheart...” Jesse said mournfully.

“Please,” Gabriel said quietly.

Jesse looked down at the container, fingers tightening on the glass. Shimada remained silent, eyes still on Gabriel, judging and ready. After a moment, Jesse said, “We’re gonna get something better set up for you. You’ll get better.”

Gabriel’s throat tightened. “I don’t care if I have to stay in there forever.”

“Ain’t gonna be forever,” Jesse promised. “Winston’ll make a bigger one so you ain’t gonna be in pieces, and you’ll get outta that one someday too.”

Gabriel swallowed down the lump in his throat. Jesse was so close, Gabriel could’ve reached out to touch him if he wanted, if he felt it was safe. “Okay,” he said, and his voice shook.

“It’s good to see you again, honeybee,” Jesse said softly.

Gabriel’s brows knitted. His throat felt too tight. His stomach twisted. “It’s good to see you too.”

* * *

_“You’re joking, right?” the Strike Commander said flatly._  

_Commander Reyes didn’t look dissuaded in the slightest. Jesse was still trying to figure out if Morrison was really Reyes’ superior. “I’m not joking,” Commander Reyes assured. “He’s good.”_

_“He’s Deadlock,” Strike Commander Morrison said, rubbing his temples. “Jesus Christ, Gabe.”_

Gabe _? Jesse wondered. Gabe. Gabe Reyes. He realized with a start that this was the first time he’d heard the Commander’s first name. Gabe. Gabriel, maybe. Sounded too soft for someone who was capable of wiping Deadlock off the map._

_Morrison’s office was, in Jesse’s opinion, far too spacious for a room that primarily occupied only one man. Everything looked too pristine, too wealthy. The wall to the left of the Strike Commander’s desk was entirely holoscreen, as was the top of the desk. The Strike Commander himself was too clean cut, with his fancy blue coat and his square, close-shaven jaw. Jesse disliked him immediately._

_“This is easily one of your worst ideas,” Strike Commander Morrison went on, snapping Jesse out of his thoughts. “I’m not telling her. And don’t give me those puppy dog eyes, either.”_

_“It’s definitely_ not _my worst idea and you know it,” Commander Reyes chidded. “Come on, she’s_ your _captain.”_

_“And he,” said the Strike Commander, nodding at Jesse, “is your hooligan. You ask her.”_

_Jesse made an indignant noise, though Reyes quickly waved him off. “I’ll tell you what,” Reyes said._

_“No,” the Strike Commander answered instantly._

_“I haven’t even said anything,” Reyes laughed._

_“You’re using that_ tone _.”_

_“What tone?”_

_“That one you use when you think I’ll cater to your whims,” the Strike Commander said flatly._

_Reyes stuck his hands in his hoodie pockets. Morrison scowled at him. Reyes said, “I just thought you might want to test your new recruit.”_

_“Goddammit,” said Morrison, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck’s sake. What’s your bet?”_

_Reyes grinned, all victorious even with his lazy posture. “Four grand,” he said, and Jesse let out a little squeak. “Your Clancy versus my McCree. Best shot wins, loser gets to give Ana her assignment.”_

_“She’s just going to tell you to train your own recruits,” Morrison said. “Goddammit. You’re on.”_

_Reyes all but beamed._

_Outside of Commander Morrison’s office, Reyes clapped Jesse on the back.  “Think you can outshoot an official military recruit?” he asked, eyes glittering._

_“Sure,” Jesse said. “Sure I can. No pressure, right?”_

_Reyes barked out a laugh. In the end, Jesse ended up getting half of Reyes’ winnings, and both Commanders laughed at him when he immediately bought himself a new hat._

_Morrison’s captain didn’t tell Reyes to train his own recruit after all, and according to Reyes, was very impressed with Jesse’s scores on the practice range. Jesse thought Ana Amari was the most magnificent woman he’d ever seen._

* * *

Gabriel breathed only out of habit, body shuddering as he took shape without warning. For a moment, all he could feel was vertigo. Being in wraith for so long and in such a tiny space was disorienting. He couldn’t ever tell what was up or down or left or right. All he could ever smell or taste was ash; all he could hear or see, static. 

He blinked, sensations returning to him slowly and then all at once. His tongue felt like sandpaper. His skin was gritty and dry. His eyes burned, his ears rang, and all he could smell was ash and rot —

He reached out and felt glass, and his heart lurched, not again, _not again —_

“Don’t,” he managed, voice scraping it’s way up his throat. “Don’t, please — ”

“Gabriel,” a voice soothed. “Calm down, honeybee, it’s me.”

Gabriel blinked again, eyes focusing on shapes. Shapes, which meant the glass wasn’t a two-way mirror. And that voice was so lovely for once, smooth and kind and familiar. “Where am I?” he asked.

“Gibraltar, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

Gabriel took a moment to reorient himself. Everything was still spinning, and he couldn’t place that voice even though he knew he liked it. _Sugar, darlin’, sweetheart_ , he could practically hear the fond nicknames in honeyed tones, in handsome Southern drawl.

“Jesse,” he mumbled after a moment, leaning against the glass while he waited for the room to still. “Liebre.”

“I’m here, honeybee,” Jesse said gently.

The name stung. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, blinking the pain away until his vision finally cleared, and he looked up to find Jesse close to the glass with his hand pressed against Gabriel’s on the other side. He startled, snatching his hand away and sitting up straight. Jesse knitted his brows.

Hanzo leaned against the wall nearby, bow in hand. Angela stood in the back, pale-faced, her small hands pressed over her mouth. Genji stood at her side, head tilted slightly towards his brother. Inside the glass, there was a cot with blankets and a pillow, a pile of clothes, and a tablet.

“What’s going on?” Gabriel rasped.

“You showed up two months ago,” Jesse answered. “Winston designed a bigger version of that container you brought.”  Jesse looked over Gabriel worriedly. “It’s airtight. Guess you don’t need to breathe now, huh?”

Gabriel’s cheeks flushed, shame swimming in his belly. “No,”  he answered sullenly, eyes downcast as his most recent memories came rushing back. The airplane, the Watchpoint, the gunslinger.

“You don’t need food or water or nothin’?”

“No,” Gabriel repeated. He glanced around the containment unit again, eyeing the clothes with particular interest. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Gabriel,” Angela said, and her voice shook. “We’ll do everything in our power to help you. I promise.”

Gabriel turned his attention to her. It was a noble idea, that she wanted to fix him, but it was a fantasy all the same. He dropped his gaze again; Angela made a faint noise, like she might burst into tears.

“It’s good to see you again, Reyes,” Genji said suddenly. “We’re glad to have you back.”

Gabriel glanced up again just in time to see Genji shoo Angela towards the door. Genji paused in the entryway, glancing back at his brother. “Hanzo,” he said, “Perhaps we should give McCree and Reyes a moment of privacy.”

Hanzo took his eyes off Gabriel just long enough to glare at Genji and flash Jesse a questioning look. Jesse nodded, and Hanzo glanced at Gabriel coldly before stalking out, shuffling stiffly past Genji. Gabriel wondered, for the barest moment, if he saw the ink along Hanzo’s arm shift, and then shuddered at the thought.

Genji sighed lightly and nodded towards Jesse, then said, “Welcome back, Reyes,” before making his exit.

For a moment, it was silent. Gabriel ran his gaze over Jesse and turned away sharply when Jesse met his eyes.

“Honeybee,” Jesse started.

Gabriel winced, a sharp pain suddenly springing between his eyes. “Don’t,” he hissed, voice softening with exhaustion right after. “Don’t.”

Jesse watched him react and swallowed hard. Gabriel tried to focus on anything but Jesse’s presence, anything but Jesse’s soft brown eyes, anything but the way his heart seemed determined to beat with Jesse near.

Jesse managed, “Is there anything you need, sugar?”  

_You,_ Gabriel thought automatically, though he swallowed it down and said, “A minute alone.” He caught the flash of hurt across Jesse’s face only because he knew him so well...anyone else would’ve said Jesse’s face hadn’t changed at all.

“Call for me if you need anything else,” Jesse said kindly, voice thick.

Gabriel watched him go, squeezed his eyes shut and listened for the fading _clink_ of Jesse’s spurs. His slow heartbeat thumped to a stop.

He felt like he was in a fishtank.

* * *

_"I don’t like this much,” McCree muttered. The prisoner screamed in pain, and McCree flashed him a look, opening his pliers enough to let the man’s fingernail drop to the floor._

_Reyes glanced up from his tablet. McCree could see his poker game from the back and wondered if all the noise was distracting him from counting cards. “You’ve done this a million times,” Reyes said, raising his eyebrow. “What’s different about this time?”_

_McCree pursed his lips. “Not him,” he said, waving his pliers at the man dismissively. “That doctor of yours. I don’t like her. Don’t like any of that shit she got set up in her lab.”_

_“O’Deorian?” Reyes asked, already back to playing poker. “You worry too much.”_

_“You worry too little,” McCree said, frustrated.The prisoner made a strangled noise. McCree wiped the blood from his pliers and sat them down, picking up a switchblade instead. “Used to be you trusted me when I had a gut feeling about shit.”_

_Reyes put his game on pause. “McCree,” he said, more of a statement than a warning._

_“Used to be,” McCree said, and cut a line down the prisoner’s arm, “When I said somethin’ wasn’t right, you’d pull back till you found what made me uneasy. Or at least act with some caution.”_

_The prisoner whimpered. McCree pursed his lips again; Reyes watched his mouth curl in displeasure and wondered if it was because of the job or still because of Dr. O’Deorian. “I am being cautious,” he said. “Nothing Blackwatch does comes without risks. You know that.”_

_McCree sheathed his knife in the prisoner’s leg. The prisoner howled as Jesse turned to face Reyes fully, hand propped on his thigh and his posture showing off his annoyance and incredulity. When the prisoner didn’t stop, McCree turned and snapped, “This’d be a might easier on you if you’d say somethin’ useful,” before turning his attention back to Reyes. “I understand takin’ risks is our thing,” he said, tone measured and sharp all at once, “But some risks are just goddamn fool’s errands, and this is one of ‘em. I don’t trust that woman t’put a bandaid on a papercut, nevermind open wounds."_

_Reyes frowned, stance shifting to something near regal. Anybody else would be intimidated. McCree just scowled. “So now I’m a fool,” Reyes said flatly._

_“That ain’t what I said and you know it,” McCree said briskly. “When did you get to thinkin’ you’re incapable of makin’ a bad call? You’re damn smart, Gabriel, but this is a shit idea and you_ know _it is, or you woulda talked it over with me before we picked her up.”_

_Reyes looked caught, and his tone turned harsh. “I gave her a second chance,” he said, and he was already regretting it, but the words kept tumbling out of his mouth. “You of all people should be able to appreciate that kind of decision.”_

_McCree looked like he’d been slapped. After a long, agonizing pause, he turned and ripped his knife out of the prisoner’s leg._

_“I’m taking a break,” he said briskly over the shrieks of pain that followed, and handed Reyes the knife._

_“Jesse,” Reyes said helplessly, and winced when the heavy steel door slammed shut._

_The prisoner sobbed._

* * *

Genji didn’t like whiskey for different reasons than his brother; he didn’t mind hard liquor, but he liked his drinks fruity, drank for fun rather than as a vice, and frequently less so since taking up monasticism. Knowing all this, Jesse appreciated Genji drinking with him on the roof.

“Don’t know why I thought he’d wanna see me,” Jesse said, well past drunk, words slurred. Genji, faceplate discarded, watched him toss back another swig, filling his cheeks with bourbon and grimacing as it burned down his throat. “Shoulda known better. I’m a damn fool.”

Genji took the bottle from him and took a sip, making an equally unpleasant face at the taste. “He needs time,” he soothed, batting Jesse’s hand away when he reached to get the bottle back. “He has a lot to get used to very suddenly. Are you crying?”

“No,” Jesse snapped, though it sounded weak. “Gimme that.”

“It is fine if you want to cry,” Genji said, passing him the bottle, then, “Angela will be upset if you vomit.”

“I ain’t gonna vomit,” Jesse insisted.

Genji eyed him with a knowing kind of look on his face. Jesse said “I ain’t,” with a little more force.

“As long as you mind your limits,” Genji said calmly. He paused, then added comfortingly, “He only needs some time.”

“And what if he don’t?” Jesse asked sharply. He put his lips to the bottle and tossed his head back quick, swallowed the whiskey down with a rough _hah_ and stood up, swaying on his feet. Genji watched him pace back and forth on the roof before Jesse suddenly whirled and chucked the bottle over the edge, stumbling with the motion and making a noise of frustration as he clumsily sat back down.

Genji clucked his tongue as he watched the bottle shatter on the rocks below. “Sober Jesse will not be pleased about that,” he remarked.

“I don’t care,” Jesse muttered, then exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”

Genji waited.

“I know he needs time,” Jesse said after a moment. “Course he does. I’m just...scared that he’s gonna have his time and be fine, or somethin’ like it, and it ain’t gonna mean a damn thing. Maybe he ain’t gonna want anythin’ to do with me.” He huffed a weak laugh, drew his knees up to his chest, arms propped on top and his face hidden behind them. “Can’t even blame him for it, if he don’t,” he murmured.

Genji lifted his legs from the edge and stood, only to take a seat at Jesse’s side again and put a hand on his shoulder. “I think,” he said, “It will be easier to think about this when you are sober. And I think it would ease your worries to meditate on this rather than drinking.” He smiled. “Whether you vomit or not, Angela will not be pleased by the state of your liver.”

“She ain’t pleased with the state of my anythin’,” Jesse mumbled.

Genji laughed. “Very true.” He clapped Jesse on the back, and Jesse made an unpleasant noise. “Have hope, McCree. Reyes still cares for you.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?” Jesse asked, peeking up from underneath the brim of his hat.

“I’m not blind,” Genji said amusedly. “ _Liebre_.”

The alcohol had already caused Jesse’s face to flush, but his cheeks went darker all the same, and he allowed himself a small smile.

* * *

_“You know what?” Gabriel said, tone lacking any venom. “You annoy the shit outta me.”_

_Jesse huffed a laugh, playful and careless. “That’s not what everybody else says.” He hummed and raised his brows, plainly amused. “Everybody says I’m your favorite.”_  

_“Who told you that?”_

_“Everybody. I hear it ‘round base all the time. Got introduced that way, once.”_

_Gabriel felt his cheeks turn warm. He had one arm propped on the wall near Jesse’s head, free hand tucked into his pocket; Jesse had his hands tucked in his pants pockets, like they might do something he’d regret if he let them wander. Gabriel wasn’t sure why he’d thought it’d be a good idea to back Jesse against a wall; Jesse was vicious when cornered, and he already looked awfully pleased with himself._

_The halls were quiet, at least. It was still fairly early, and most of Blackwatch was still eating. Jesse, by some mysterious stroke of luck, had already finished and was headed for morning training at the same time as his commander. Gabriel almost wanted to accuse Jesse of memorizing his schedule, and would have if not for the fact that Jesse wouldn’t be embarrassed about it._

_And he was so goddamn cheeky._

_Jesse lifted his chin, edged his tongue over his bottom lip before he bit it, and Gabriel nearly swore. It was flirty at best, though Gabriel was more inclined to call it seductive. They’d been playing like this for a while now, toeing at an invisible line neither of them had been quite willing to cross just yet. It was supposed to be a game, something they did just because they’d known each other so long now, but each time they just seemed to get more and more forward, and it was becoming harder and harder to tell where that invisible line was supposed to be._

_“Somethin’ the matter?” Jesse asked, tilting his head, angling his hips opposite his shoulders. A tease._

_Something the matter...Jesse being twenty-five was the matter. Jesse being his subordinate was the matter. Jesse being one of his closest confidants was the matter. Maybe they were playing now, but what would happen if they suddenly became serious, if they crossed that line they kept toeing at? What if Gabriel made a move and Jesse backed off? What if he really was only playing?_

_“You tell me, Liebre,” he settled on saying, because everything ‘wrong’ he could think of was entirely dependent on Jesse’s answer to a question he wasn’t ready to ask._

_Jesse studied him for a moment, eyes glittering and mischievous. After a moment, he laughed openly and ducked under Gabriel’s arm, swatting at Gabriel’s ass as he went on his way. “I like it when you call me that,” he said over his shoulder, grin bleeding into his voice._

_Gabriel thought Jesse McCree might end up being the death of him._

* * *

Gabriel remained where he was for a while after Jesse left. He was still experiencing slight vertigo, and his body didn't feel entirely real. Beyond that, he struggled with the notion that he might be dreaming, with the idea that he might wake up and find himself on a transport leaving Venice.

The clothes sitting on his cot were, for the moment, his only comfort; they were old Overwatch merch, freshly washed and still smelling of laundry detergent. Gabriel pulled a sweatshirt into his lap and ran his fingers over the Overwatch patch sewn into the shoulder, smile bittersweet at the irony of it all. The organization he and Jack had worked so hard to build had gone up in flames, and now here he was, crawling back to the ruins. 

And Jesse was here. Gabriel wasn’t sure if he ought to be relieved or terrified.

He pulled off his red costume and folded it neatly before setting it in the corner. Amongst those changes of clothes left for him, there were new pairs of socks and underwear. Gabriel tried not to focus on the fact that Jesse had remembered his size.

“Agent Reyes,” Athena said suddenly, and Gabriel almost laughed: he’d been _demoted_. “Your heart rate — ” Athena paused, then said, sounding almost flustered,  “Your reading changed, I apologize — ”

“It’d be easier on the both of us,” Gabriel interrupted, pulling the hoodie over his head, “If you didn’t monitor my vitals.”

“Understood, Agent.”

* * *

Jesse’s fingers hovered over the fingerprint padlock longer than necessary. Hanzo, leaning against the wall with his arms folded impatiently, asked, “Has your hangover made you forget how to use your own hand?” 

Jesse shot him a withering look. “I’d ask if that sake of yours made you forget your manners, if it wasn’t weak as shit.”

“Precisely why I do not have a hangover,” Hanzo returned.

“You’re no fun, y’know that?”

“I do not need alcohol to enjoy myself. “

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Jesse muttered.

“For what reason are you hesitating?” Hanzo demanded. “You have thought of him nonstop for months, and now that he is mere feet from you — and harmless on top of that — you hesitate.”

Jesse thought that was a little hypocritical but neglected to say so, considering his hangover was killing him and arguing with Hanzo was a headache all on its own. “I just wasn’t sure I’d ever get this far,” he admitted.

“Well, you did,” Hanzo said flatly, no-nonsense. “I would think you would be excited.”

“I am excited,” Jesse insisted.

“Then go in.”

Jesse huffed in irritation. “Couldja give a man a minute to get himself together?” he asked, and Hanzo answered by pressing his hand to the lock.

“Hanzo!” Jesse yelped, and froze because Gabriel was staring at him, all startled and equally caught unawares.

“I will be waiting here,” Hanzo said with an air of satisfaction.

Jesse shot him a deadly scowl and shut the door behind him. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, and nearly flinched, because he hadn’t meant to say _sweetheart_ , dammit.

“Hey,” Gabriel said, sitting up on his cot, tone betraying uneasiness, but he didn’t say not to call him that, at least.

Jesse bit his lip, unsure of how to proceed with all that was hanging between them. Between the abandonment, the murder, and the unusual reunion, he didn’t know where to begin. “”How’re you feelin’?” he asked eventually.

There was a pregnant pause. Gabriel’s strange red eyes flitted over him as if looking for some kind of trick. Jesse wondered if he was expecting cruelty or a hallucination. “Better,” Gabriel answered simply.

“Good,” Jesse said, cleared his throat. “Uh...y’mind if I sit down?”

Gabriel looked him over once more, then drew his knees to his chest. “Free country,” he said. Jesse just looked at him, then walked closer, nearly to the glass when Gabriel suddenly stiffened and said, “Don’t come closer.”

Jesse stopped short, surprise on his features. “Pardon?”

“Don’t come any closer,” Gabriel said, perhaps miserably, arms tight around his legs as if hoping to restrain himself. “Please.”

Jesse’s throat tightened. He could’ve screamed at the unfairness of it, that Gabriel was so close and yet still out of reach. Jesse wasn’t one for superstition, but damned if it didn’t feel like the universe was punishing him for every bullet he’d ever put in the heads of enemies, for every innocent he’d ever wronged in Deadlock.

“Okay,” he said, and it came out like a croak. “Whatever’s best for you, honey, I’ll just uh...” he glanced around, then pulled the chair away from the monitors that displayed Gabriel’s ever fluctuating vitals. “There,” he said, taking a seat. “This okay?”

Gabriel shifted uncomfortably. Jesse steeled himself for a refusal, but Gabriel just nodded.

Jesse felt his heart leap into his throat. Damn Hanzo for not letting him take longer to get himself together...not that it would’ve helped much. “So uh...how’re you feelin’? I mean...! I asked that already, I guess. Uh — ” he glanced back at the monitors again. Gabriel’s heart was beating. It hadn’t been two minutes ago. He hesitated, then pointed awkwardly at the screen and asked, “Does, uh...s’that hurt?”

Gabriel kept his expression guarded. “Does what?”

“Y’know, the...” Jesse motioned vaguely at his own heart. “The startin’ and stoppin’.”

Gabriel considered it. “No,” he said after a moment. “It’s unpleasant. Doesn’t hurt, though.” He glanced at the monitor and browned, brows knitting as he absentmindedly rubbed at his chest.

“Oh,” Jesse said. “That’s uh...that’s good.” His eyes fell to the bottom of the container, to the glass stained black with ash. “You really alright?” he asked hesitantly.

Gabriel shrugged. “I’m better than I was.” He paused, then met Jesse’s eyes. “Have they come after me yet?”

Jesse blinked. “Talon? Naw, no sign of ‘em.”

“Yet. They’re gonna come after me.”

“So?” Jesse said tersely. “I ain’t lettin’ ‘em take you.”

Gabriel didn’t say anything. Jesse cringed inwardly — not because he was at all embarrassed by his devotion, but rather because Gabriel’s reaction was a certain kind of unreadable that Jesse didn’t like.

“Where’s the bodyguard?” Gabriel asked suddenly.

Jesse blinked again. “Who, Hanzo?”

Gabriel’s mouth curled ever so slightly in distaste.

“He’s waitin’ outside,” Jesse said, then made a face of his own. “He ain’t a _bodyguard_.”

Gabriel’s brows lifted, but only just barely, and after a moment he dropped his gaze. ‘Well,” he said quietly, “Tell him I said thanks.”

“For what?”

“For stopping me.”

It grew quiet again, the silence interrupted only by the sound of the heart monitor beeping too slow. Jesse blurted, “Y’mind if I smoke?”

Gabriel gave him a flat look. Jesse flushed and lit his cigar. Gabriel just watched him, then asked, “You still smoke the cinnamon flavor?”

He remembered. “Yeah,” Jesse answered, old fondness swelling in his chest. He took a drag, pulled the cigar from his lips and blew a smoke ring, hopeful eyes flitting over Gabriel’s face.

Gabriel looked away.

Jesse swallowed, then dropped his gaze too and took another drag from the cigar. “So...” he said after a moment, “You remember anythin’ other than Venice?”

Gabriel looked up at him, eyes searching Jesse’s face before dropping again. “I remember...a lot of killing,” he said quietly. “And...a containment unit like this one. But I couldn’t see out of it.” He paused, then added with uncertainty, “There were...I was reconditioned, but I don’t remember how.”

Jesse’s brows knitted. He thought about Amélie Lacroix, about how she’d murdered her husband and slipped away before anyone had noticed. He chewed his lip. “You mind me asking how you got like this?” he asked quietly, tapping the ash off the edge of his cigar and gesturing to the blackened glass.

“Like you haven’t figured it out?” Gabriel muttered.

“Gabe.”

“You already know it was Moira,” Gabriel snapped. He looked away again. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Frustration and hurt pricked at Jesse’s heart. He wanted to snap that he deserved an explanation, that Gabriel owed him that, at least. Instead, he only muttered, “Alright, then,” and puffed on his cigar, forcing the words back down.

Gabriel murmured, “...My head hurts. I get migraines after being in wraith for so long.”

Jesse softened. “You sure you’re gonna be alright?” he asked gently.

“Eventually,” Gabriel said quietly. He hesitated, then added, “Thanks for the clothes.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Jesse said, biting back _honeybee._ He tapped the ash off his cigar again, thoughtful, then said, “Things are gonna get better for you.”

Gabriel just swallowed, and buried his face in his arms.

Jesse went back to check on him again later that evening, partly out of worry and partly because he couldn’t stay away. Gabriel’s voice rumbled too low, his worst slow and sharp and cruel, his bone white mask hiding the open wounds along his cheeks and doing nothing for the smoke that spilled out of his clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone again for all the support, especially through all these long ass hiatuses. I know this whole revision was ill-recieved by some, but I hope the (in my opinion) much improved time progression, characterization, and overall quality will make up for it. 
> 
> I really can't say how much it means to me that so many of you are sticking with me through this. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and will still be around for the next update (hopefully sooner in coming). 
> 
> \- Violet

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Elevação](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036836) by [AltenWho (AltenVantas)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltenVantas/pseuds/AltenWho)




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